Christa gratefully accepted her invitation. She had already visited five registries today and been rebuffed at all of them, sometimes without even a semblance of politeness, and always after a lengthy wait. This particular office had an air of almost oppressive gentility, with quietly expensive furnishings and an atmosphere calculated to intimidate the average scullery maid or hall boy. Christa tried to convince herself that Mrs. Haywood would have something for her, but the empty waiting room did not nourish hope.
The young woman came back with a look of mild surprise on her face. “Mrs. Haywood will see you now. Follow me.”
Mrs. Haywood had once been housekeeper at the town mansion of a duke, and her black dress and severely pulled back hair bespoke discreet efficiency. She looked up from her desk when Christa entered, openly judging. She said crisply, “You may be seated. Tell me who you are and what kind of position you seek.”
Christa inclined her head politely, then sat. “My name is Christine Bohnet, and I seek a position as governess. Here are my letters of reference.” Christa waited anxiously while Mrs. Haywood perused them. She had chosen to keep the name “Christine” and coupled it with the surname of the two servants who had fled Paris with them; the Bohnets had been almost like her own family.
Mrs. Haywood handed back the letters and said, “I’m afraid I can do nothing for you.”
Frustrated again, Christa raised her chin and said, “May I ask you a question, madam?”
The woman raised a brow but said, “You may.”
“What is wrong? Is it that there is no work, or is it me?” Christa said. “I must know.”
Mrs. Haywood sighed but decided to give her an honest answer—those clear gray eyes deserved nothing less. “In a sense, it is you. The only situation an émigré is likely to be considered for is teaching French, and many of your compatriots seek those same few places. For other teaching work, you face resentment and prejudice. There is a war on, remember, and France has always been our traditional enemy, admired and despised at one and the same time.
“While you have excellent references, you are unlikely to find a position. You are too young, too pretty, too French, and few families want their daughters to learn the academic subjects you have mastered.” Mrs. Haywood’s voice was sympathetic as she added, “You would be better advised to seek another kind of employment.”
It was the answer Christa had begun to suspect. “Thank you for your candor. Do you have any suggestions of schools I might approach? Surely there are some that would wish a French mistress.”
Mrs. Haywood was starting to reply when her young employee entered with an officious footman following closely. The girl gave a scathing glance at the man and said, “Thispersonwishes to hand deliver a message to you.”
The footman, a bluff fellow whose height and well-formed calves probably doubled his annual salary, said righteously, “Lady Pomfret said I was to deliver this into your own hands and wait for a reply.”
Mrs. Haywood broke the seal and quickly scanned the note. Looking up, she said, “Give Lady Pomfret my regrets. At the moment I do not have on my books an abigail suitable to her ladyship’s station.”
A mad idea struck Christa. Since she must find work as soon as possible and no one would have her as a teacher, why should she not be a lady’s maid? The thought was a radical one. Teachers came from the educated classes and commanded some respect; an abigail was at the top of the domestic hierarchy but very much a servant. And yet . . . did not Papa say all work had dignity? She spoke quickly before she could change her mind.
“Mrs. Haywood, I may know someone for her ladyship. May I speak with you privately?”
The proprietress considered, then turned to the footman. “Will you take a glass of ale? I will see what this young person has to say.”
A greedy light showed in the footman’s eye and he followed the assistant out of the room. Turning to Christa, she said, “You know an abigail who is at liberty? She must be a woman of very high skills—Lady Pomfret is most particular.”
“Please, Mrs. Haywood, letmehave the position.” Christa’s eyes were pleading.
“Out of the question!” the proprietress said, her deep voice abrupt. “You are obviously a young woman of gentle birth. It is difficult to imagine you teaching, but impossible to imagine you as a servant. My business is built on providing skilled workers. I cannot afford to send out a novice.”
“But I can do the work! I can sew and alter dresses and care for milady’s jewels. I know how to style hair, and I make very fine cosmetics. I can write letters or read aloud or play the harpsichord to soothe the mistress.” The words came out in a rush as she tried to head off the disapproving look on Mrs. Haywood’s face.
“A lady’s maid is one situation where being French is an advantage—France has always led fashion.” Christa stood, almost quivering with determination. “If you will let me work with you for ten minutes, I willprovewhat I can do!”
Intrigued by the proposition, Mrs. Haywood decided to let this unusual young lady have her chance; today was becoming much more amusing than she had expected. She said, “Very well, convince me.”
Christa moved behind the proprietress and said in her pretty French accent, “If Madame will permit . . .” and started to remove hairpins. A born mimic, she fell automatically into the deferential firmness common to lady’s maids.
Taking her comb from her reticule, she used it to loosen and reshape Mrs. Haywood’s dark hair. An elaborate style was not possible without more time and equipment, so Christa pulled the thick hair back in a way that created soft waves around the woman’s face, then knotted it lightly at the crown. The long tresses below were pulled into a loop and pinned under the knot.
“Madame’s hair ismagnifique,” she murmured as her hands skillfully finished the styling. Christa gave thanks that the day had been warm enough for her to wear a long cashmere shawl rather than her cloak; the garment was a vivid periwinkle blue that would suit Mrs. Haywood’s coloring to perfection. She draped it around Mrs. Haywood’s shoulders, then gently rubbed the woman’s cheeks to give her more color. Pleased with the results, she asked, “If Madame has a mirror?”
Madame did have a hand mirror concealed in a lower drawer of the massive desk. Mrs. Haywood pulled it out, then looked at her image and gasped. The face looking back was not the stern widowed businesswoman that circumstances had created, but the eager young girl she had been, in love with Thomas Haywood and facing a life of infinite possibilities. The soft hairstyle removed fifteen years from her age, and her skin glowed above the rich blue cashmere. She was shaken. The face she showed the world was so formidable that she herself had almost forgotten that young girl.
Mrs. Haywood needed a moment to collect herself before saying, “You are indeed very skilled. You can also mend and wash and starch fine fabrics?” At Christa’s nod she said rather dryly, “I do not doubt you know how to supervise the lower staff. Sit down again and I will tell you more about Lady Pomfret.”
Christa looked so young and hopeful that Mrs. Haywood regretted the warnings she must give. “You cannot possibly know how different life is belowstairs. The abigail of the mistress has a great deal of status but is the target of resentment because of her privileges and suspicion because of her closeness to the family. The hours are very long, and you will have almost no freedom.
“Moreover, Lady Pomfret is not an easy woman to work for. I believe half the legitimate registry offices in London have provided her with abigails—in the last five years I have sent her two myself. She pays only twenty-five pounds a year, which is ridiculously low for the skill required. And her husband . . . there have been complaints about her husband.” Mrs. Haywood hesitated, wondering whether to elaborate, but decided not to. The girl looked intelligent enough to deduce what kind of complaints. “You are positive you wish to undertake this?”
